A SYMPATHETIC TEAM.

Last month the World Railway Games Cycling event was held in a small village in the Czech Republic, a few miles away from Prague. The government kindly sponsored my husband to accompany the Cycling team as the Chief De Mission. The Chief in turn generously offered to haul his wife along. At first I refused. For me, cycles have always been a daunting means of transportation (ever since I landed in a thorny bush after my very first attempt) and even watching someone cycle brings back those excruciating memories. Moreover, I would definitely be an oddball in a prestigious worldwide event. Obviously I was wrong. As it turned out, our entire team was a big misfit.

We came back last week, after taking a slight detour to Switzerland for some sightseeing. After returning, I mailed all my friends emphasizing the breathtaking beauty of the places we had visited- of how I was still in a euphoric state. And of how I would exemplify the details once I had my buoyant feet firmly planted on the Hyderabadi terrain. I even wrote an article for the website, poetically depicting the spectacular landscapes of the countryside and the scenic beauty of the exquisite Alps. ‘It felt like I was in Heaven’ I began my article. ‘And the best part was I did not even have to die to reach here!’ I ended dramatically. I almost sent the article but the same day I received a mail from one of my friends. ‘And what about the Cycling event?’ he wrote. ‘How did that go?’ That one simple query brought me down to earth- like nothing else could have. And I had to renovate the entire article, swapping the picturesque details with the sordid realities. This revamped article is dedicated to that intangible oath that every writer should secretly vow to take- of illustrating the pictures of life as they are and not as we want them to be.

We were the first team to arrive in Prague. We were also the only Asians in the group of the eleven other European contingents. After a day of sightseeing, we branched off to a small place called Usti Nad Labem. Literally translated it meant ‘Usti, a city on the banks of the river Labe’. Poetically decoded it definitely should mean ‘Paradise on the banks of Enchantment’.

With the massive erosion of young Indian brains from almost every province in our country and with millions of Indian families prodigiously marking the territory of the entire globe, it came as a surprise when heads started to turn wherever we went. ‘Indie, Indie’ people whispered, nudging each other, wherever our unfamiliar features were spotted. Our brown skins were a highlight in the village. Coloured eyes on Caucasian faces curiously scanned my sari and salwar kameez, wondering what the hell kind of sinuous garments they were. If the team felt proud of their image I almost felt like a cultural ambassador. We indeed were a proud bunch of Indians. And we reveled in our newfound glory. Unfortunately the honour lasted only until the commencement of the actual event.

The moment our Cyclists arrived, fully attired in their cycling outfits, the humiliation began. Every other team came brilliantly clad in multihued and snug outfits and even I, whose knowledge of cycling dresses amounted to a zilch, could gauge that the quality of costumes meted out to our boys, was way below the International level. Dull and baggy, it felt like they were trying desperately to shine in borrowed feathers. The accompanying equipments were even more appalling. While every other Cyclist flaunted his advanced- electronic geared- light- as- a -feather machine, we Indians lagged behind with our heavyweight contraptions. Obviously, for our Sports officials, either bargain was easy to cash in on, or traditionalism was too hard to let go of. The helmets were outmoded, the shoes much behind the times and the safety glasses and gloves, nowhere to be found. The expressions of yearning on the faces of our cyclists, was not hard to decipher. Nor was the ignominy on their miserable young faces.

And then the races started. It was a three- day event. On the first day, in the team event, out of the twelve nations that participated, our boys managed to scrounge to the tenth position. The second day in the Individual mountaineering track, only fourteen of the sixty-six participants did not get to complete the race. All our boys were in that slot. And on the final day, in the Individual championships, the full Indian team managed to position themselves in the 40 plus ranking.

A solemn discussion with the boys and the coach revealed a few despicable truths that seem nauseating to even point out. ‘It does not matter’, we consoled their hurt egos, ‘consider it as a picnic’. But this was no picnic. It was a matter of honour. It was a matter of national interest. And more important it was a matter of disregarding a certain set of rules. This blatant murder of a sport, especially when everyone is aware of the funds that keep flowing in freely, amounts to no less than a heinous and unsporting crime.

But this was hardly the end of the story. More embarrassment followed. A handful of ties with ‘Indian Railways’ embroidered on it, was presented to selected officials. But on the day of the banquet, after the dining and the dancing, when every team member began exchanging souvenirs with each other, there was nothing much for us to exchange but pleasantries- and language being a problem that wasn’t such a great show either. So when the French team gave us a bottle of wine we graciously took it. When the Swiss handed out scarves, we pleasantly accepted them. When the Germans distributed tie- pins we carefully pocketed them. Thus we kept on taking the souvenirs and kept on thanking and kept on smiling until our hands and throats and our lips began to ache with discomfort.

And finally there was a toast. Everyone raised their glasses of Champagne and the entire room boomed with pleasantries. The President of the Association made his usual rounds, clinking his glass with the Chief De Mission of every team and exchanging a few words. When he reached our table, with a gigantic grin on his face, he told something in Czech and after vigorously shaking hands with every one of us he flitted off to the next table. We helplessly turned to the Interpreter, who immediately translated the message. ‘You were the most…er..how do you say…er… SYMPATHETIC team’, he finally managed to blurt out. He then gave us a warm smile.

Hours after that, we sat pondering on the crisp but amusing statement of the President. We could not figure out whether the translation had gone haywire or whether the ‘sympathetic’ that he meant was kindhearted or congenial or compassionate or understanding. Or whether it was merely ‘sympathetic’ as in ‘pitiful’. Whatever he actually intended we would never know but deep down we all knew the truth. Ours was indeed a sympathetic team- not as in any of the above meanings but ‘simply pathetic’.

. But one thing I do know. If ever I were confronted with the same question again- ‘So how did the Cycling event go?’ my answer would obviously be an evasive nod followed by a meek ‘Okay’. A safe but sure monosyllabic answer is much easier than a three page detailed but ‘sympathetic’ one. We Indians may be the Jacks in most of the global trades but we definitely are the Masters of one unique sport. That of masking the reprehensible truth with that despicable but famous ‘chalta hai’ attitude of ours!

Nargis Natarajan